As the Pig Turns - By M.C. Beaton Page 0,44

of me to come right up to you. I wanted your advice. It’s really Mrs Raisin I want to meet. Here’s my card. I’m Peter Powell, estate agent.’

‘And what did you want with Mrs Raisin?’ asked Toni suspiciously.

‘It’s like this. I’ve got this client who wants a cottage in the Cotswolds. He was driving with me around the villages and we ended up in Carsely. He fell in love with Mrs Raisin’s cottage.’

‘Odd that he should spot it,’ said Toni suspiciously. ‘It’s in a cul-de-sac.’

‘He spotted it from the end of Lilac Lane. We drove up. He said he must have it.’

‘Agatha won’t sell, I can tell you that.’

‘Ah, but wait to hear what he’s offering.’

‘Who is this man?’

‘At the moment he prefers to remain anonymous.’

‘Mr . . .’

‘Peter. Call me Peter.’

‘Peter, then. Agatha Raisin is a detective who has, until recently, been involved in two grizzly murders. She is going to be highly suspicious, as I am, of this mysterious buyer. In fact, I am going to have to report your interest to the police.’

‘You can check up on me anytime. I’m well known in the estate-agency business. I have a good reputation.’

‘I think, then, they will be more interested in your client. Look at it this way. A prospective buyer would expect access to the house, would he not?’

‘Well, of course.’

‘So the police will naturally want to know who and why.’

‘That’s understandable. Go ahead.’

After he had left, Toni crossed the hotel lobby and took a quick look inside the dining room. There was no sign of Fiona. She boldly asked at the desk whether a Mrs Fiona Richards was in the hotel and learned to her dismay that she had left.

It must have happened while I was talking to that estate agent, thought Toni. I’m suspicious of everyone and everything. Does this estate agent really exist?

She was just crossing the square to police headquarters when she saw Bill Wong about to get into his car and hailed him. Toni decided it would be better to say nothing about watching Fiona, as they had all been warned off.

She told him about the estate agent and the prospective client for Agatha’s cottage.

‘I’d better look into it,’ said Bill. ‘Leave it with me. I mean, why did this estate agent approach you? Why not phone Agatha?’

Toni then phoned Agatha on her mobile and gave her a report. ‘Where were you when this man accosted you?’ asked Agatha.

‘I didn’t tell Bill, but I happened to see Fiona’s car parked at the George, so I waited in reception. Then this estate agent distracted me, and after he had gone, so had she.’

Agatha’s voice was sharp with anxiety. ‘Toni, you are not to have anything to do with the murders. It’s too dangerous. You’ve got that divorce case. Get on with it.’

After Toni had left, Bill went back into the police station and typed out a short report on the estate agent and handed it to Wilkes.

‘I see his firm is Powell, Slerry and Card,’ said Wilkes. ‘I’ve seen their FOR SALE boards. Get round there and have a word with him and insist on getting the name of his client.’

The estate agent’s offices were situated in the Glebe, one of the twisting mediaeval lanes around the abbey. He went in and asked for Mr Powell. A girl disappeared into a back office and then indicated that he should go in. Powell rose from behind his desk and extended a large hand.

‘Why am I being honoured with a visit from the police?’ he asked.

‘We are interested in your client who wishes to buy Agatha Raisin’s cottage. May I have his name, please?’

‘We do not give out names unless authorized to do so,’ said Powell.

‘Oh, do be sensible,’ said Bill. ‘Do you want me to get a warrant and have your files thoroughly searched?’

‘Would you mind stepping outside while I phone him? Just a courtesy to a client.’

Bill waited impatiently, knowing he had little chance of getting a warrant without having any solid proof of criminal activity.

Powell came out of his office and handed him a slip of paper. ‘His name is Bogdan Staikov. You’ll find him at the George right now.’

‘What nationality?’

Powell smiled. ‘You’ll need to ask him.’

At the George, Bill was told that Mr Staikov was taking coffee on the terrace.

He walked through the hotel and on to the terrace overlooking the gardens at the back. He had not asked to be conducted to Staikov, feeling sure he would spot the foreigner right